


Those Words Are Empty Just Like My Heart

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [36]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M, slash and language.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lance gives up everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is a split timeline story; the beginning and ending sections set right at and after _Friction, Baby_ , and the middle section while Arthur is still attending the Police academy and Lance is graduated from University. The song I have been inspired to write to (and where the title came from) for weeks now is _Just Say It_ by Sleepthief. Feedback is love.

 

 

  
Lance stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was perfect, his clothing was impeccable, his skin beautiful and pores tight and face shaved and clean. He opened his eyes wide, blinking, fluttering his lashes, tugging at his black button down with his hands as he smiled and pretended to greet people as he watched himself.

He looked down at his shoes; they were shiny and expensive he doubted anyone else would have anything quite as fancy as he did, especially since they were going downtown of all places, and no one there was from money and fuck’s sake, but did they have to do this?

He licked his lips and grinned and it was wide and frightening and his face was a skull, bones etching sharp lines in his cheeks and chin, white skin punctuated by the black of socket deep darkness under his eyes.

He leaned over the sink and the tiny mirror situated there, sucked up a line with a minimum of fuss, and wiped his hand under his nose, rubbing his finger over his gums as Guin beat on the locked door, asking him for the hundredth time to get _your ass out here._

He opened the door with one last look at his artfully tousled curls, grinned at his sister, and grabbed his keys and sunglasses as he opened the front door, holding it for her, waiting as though she’d been the one to delay them.

*

He sat in the car after leaving Arthur’s loft; his hands were at ten and two and the Thunderbird purred like the powerful beast it was. He breathed in short, quiet breaths, the night fully upon the city, the moon outshining any of the tiny stars that dared show their faces through the overwhelming city lights.

_I can’t do this, Arthur. I have to go._

He bit his lip, the first movement he’d made in ten minutes. He turned his stiff neck to the right, waiting to see if Arthur would open his front door and come down the steps, looking for him, begging him to forgive him, kissing him, taking him inside, fucking him until he forgot any kind of worry or fear or hate or anger he’d ever had in regards to Arthur. Arthur would hold him afterward and they’d laugh and shower and then they’d sleep in the same bed, Arthur’s big bed that Lancelot loved and had picked the sheets for, Arthur buying them because Lance had loved them.

His dry eyes slid slowly closed, and he let his forehead rest on the steering column, jumping when he accidently blew the horn. He jerked his head up, eyes trained on Arthur’s door –

Nothing happened, and after checking the street for traffic, he pulled out woodenly, driving to the Five as slowly as any grandmother ever had, the only thing that betrayed his feelings the trembling of his hands on the wheel.

*  
**Then.**

“How many times do you have to check on that?”

Lance snarled as he slid his hand inside the tangle of wires that sat at his feet, sweat beading at his temples as he fished around under the DJ set up for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes. “As many times as it takes to fix it, Arthur. You could stop complaining and help me, if you wanted this to go faster.” He cursed and wiped his hand over his forehead, the climber’s lamp he wore strapped around his skull tight and bright and making his head pound. Arthur stared at him from where he stood at the edge of the Dias, arms crossed over his fancy suit.

“I can’t get dirty. Unlike you, I don’t have more than one suit,” he bit off, his face pinched and red, anger obviously getting the better of him. “Are you going to be ready in ten minutes?”

Lance threw the small needle nosed pliers he held down, the _tink_ they made as annoying as Arthur’s bitching. He sniffed and ripped his headlamp off, his pupils expanding rapidly in the absence of the light. “Like I said the first four times, I have no idea. I am hurrying as fast as I can; it’s not my fault the fucking electrician isn’t here. Fuck!” He spat the word and lay down on his side, wiggling closer to the base of the booth, the wires there twisted and tangled and he delved as deeply as he could get, searching for the one damn wire that didn’t seem to want to work.

Arthur didn’t say anything for a good five minutes as Lance cussed and dug and wired things together and searched for tools and slipped his headlamp back on and when he finally sat up, the vinyl that had been playing before kicked to life, filling the cavernous empty club with echoing bass that thrummed in his blood and _you say that you need me_ wailed loudly as the singer tore at his heart with her lyrics. “Okay, done,” he said loudly over the music, standing, pulling the lamp off and lifting the needle from the record, watching the thing spin at the right speed. He sighed and reached for the phone in his pocket, speed dialing the electrician and after using some choice epithets had an appointment for the stupid man to try and come again around 9 the next morning.

He looked up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light again, opened his mouth to tell Arthur he was done –

Arthur wasn’t there. Lance cocked his head and narrowed his eyes; had Arthur gone to the bathroom? He stepped down from the Dias and made his way to the large men’s room, sticking his head in, called _Arthur?_ and waited – nothing.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and shook his head.

He was coated in dust and dirt and his hair was crazy from the headlamp and he was sweaty and his face was streaked with some kind of what he guessed was oil and he couldn’t go out looking like this, for fuck’s sake. He snapped off the light and crossed the dance floor and made his way up the stairs, his footfalls gunshots to his sensitive ears. He looked in his private office – maybe Arthur had gone in there – but nobody. He grabbed his keys and turned on the alarm and went outside into the humid night air, a chopper buzzing over his head and to the north toward Beverly Hills just as he shut the door and turned the lock.

Arthur was leaning on his car, arms still crossed, face thunderous with annoyance or some such thing; Lance had no idea why the other man would think he’d have a right to be pissed. He was the one that had had to stop here and fix some last minute fucking thing before they could go to whatever meeting or party or whatever the shit it was Arthur had been invited to from his school. Lance had agreed to go because Arthur had been amazingly nice to him about it, as nice as he’d been in months without Lance having to cajole him into it. Also without Lance having to do anything chemical first before hanging out with Arthur so he could deal with the things that Arthur was doing right now. Like his police school and his self-righteousness and his _changing_ that had Lance feeling like he was constantly going to throw up from worry. Or anger – why did Arthur have to do this? Was he not satisfied with his life the way it had been?

Was he not satisfied with them? Or with Lance? Why did he have to go and make a change this monumental, when he knew, he _knew_ about Lance’s family and what Lance was doing himself now?

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” He realized he sounded whiny, but he was mad, and he was dirty and sweaty and now Arthur would be even madder that he had to wait for Lance more to change clothing and to wash his face and do something with his hair. “I’m covered in dirt. I need to either go by the loft and change or go by Nordstrom and pick up something else to wear, cause I can’t go like this.” He gestured at himself, and then widened his eyes and took a step back as Arthur surged forward, arms clenched at his sides as he shouted.

“I knew this would happen – for fuck’s sake, Lancelot, can’t you put my needs first for once? It’s not like you don’t have a hundred lackeys in your employ to take care of this kind of shit!” He pointed toward APC and then turned his finger toward Lance’s chest. “This is a Dean’s invite only party, and you have to have been practically damn perfect to go. I am the only one in my _class_ to get invited, and I’m going to. be. late.” He said the last three words in perfect synchronicity, ice and flame combined, and Lance opened his mouth to spew as much vitriol back that he knew how to use.

“Don’t,” Arthur held up his hand. He dug his keys out of his pocket, and tossed them to Lance, who caught them, the metallic _clunk_ making him clench his teeth. “Take the car wherever the fuck you want to go. I’m going to catch a cab,” he turned toward the street and whistled sharply, a yellow taxi pulling over after about two seconds. He walked stiffly toward it, jerking the door open with a crunch of grating bolts and rust. “Come if you want. I don’t care.”

Lance bit down on his tongue, _rage_ rising, a tide of monsoon rain and wind and he lashed out at the closest thing, Arthur’s ridiculous anger echoing in his head.

The window of the Toyota cracked under the combined strain of his knuckles and the clutched keys, a spiderweb of infinite beauty, Lance’s skin broken and blood dripping down his arm, adding to the dirt and oil and nastiness already there. He watched as Arthur’s gaze froze him to the spot, and he watched as Arthur’s cab took off and he watched as the street began to fill up, clubgoers ready for the night, restaurants busy and he looked down at the ground, the stained pavement wet and red now. He blinked and listened to the sound of the cars around him screeching and people talking and the pattering of his blood drip drip dripping to the ground, unheeded.

*

Roland was surprised to see him, but Lancelot took it in stride and after snorting two more lines. He was cleaned up and wore new clothing and his father handed him an envelope with an address and the keys to his Mazarati and with a strangely affectionate look told him he was doing a good job and would he please stop and get Guinevere on the way back to the office. Lance nodded his assent and scooted out of Benoit International before Roland could wake up his real personality.

The moon was high and the car was _fast_ and he made the delivery the way he was supposed to and got to Guin’s flat in record time. She wasn’t outside and didn’t come outside when he beeped the horn – three times – so he shut the engine off and stalked to her door, letting himself in with the key she’d given him.

His sister was standing in the front bathroom, examining a giant hickey on her neck, cursing under her breath. Lance lounged against the doorframe, smirking his most beautiful smirk, his eyebrows raised to the ends of his bangs. “And?” he asked, his grin broadening when she smacked his arm.

“I don’t want dad seeing this,” she sighed, and poked at it. “Too early in the season for a turtleneck?” He shrugged and turned to her foyer, tugging an Hermes scarf off the rack by the door and bringing it to her. “Green will work with your outfit.”

She tied it expertly and pursed her lips. “Your fashion sense does come in handy, Lancelot.” Snapping out the light, she pushed him out of the bathroom and grabbed her bag, both of them outside and door locked quickly. “Why are you being nice to me? And why aren’t you with Arthur? Doesn’t he have some sort of party thing tonight?” Her voice rose to a suspicious octave, jealousy and something he couldn’t name coloring her words black and orange, rusty and bitter and he sighed, the coke in his system not enough to handle his father and her _and_ Arthur’s anger all in one night. He tugged on her arm.

“Let’s go. Dad doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he bit off, and she cursed at him as she tripped over a small stick on her sidewalk, following him quickly to the car.

“Did Arthur not take you to his party?”

“Shut up, Guinevere,” he answered quietly, so quietly she paused and raised her brows, crossing her arms as he unlocked the car and jerked the door open for her. He crossed in front of it and slipped into the seat, snapping the seatbelt into place, revving the engine when she didn’t get in right away.

She finally got in, taking her turn to sigh and lock her seatbelt. “You guys have been fighty lately.” It sounded too much like sympathy, and Lance growled in answer as he tore off down the street, wanting nothing but to get her to their father’s office, return the car, and to crash Arthur’s dumb party to see what kind of a ruckus he could cause. Now _that_ would cap off a fantastically awesome night.

Guin didn’t speak to him for the rest of drive, and gradually as his high began to wear off, his melancholia rose, and he practically shoved her out of the car, tossing the keys to her, not answering her call of _let me know if you need me_ as he sprinted toward Arthur’s Toyota, the poor splintered window winking brightly in the shadow of the moon.

*

He cruised past the fancy restaurant where the party was being held three times before he decided not to go in. It was almost midnight at any rate, his high was gone, and he was suddenly trembling and tired, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Roland had been cryptic when he’d called to tell him the delivery he’d wanted had been made; Lance knew his father was going through something, as he looked really bad lately. But aside from doctor’s visits, he hadn’t said anything, which Lance preferred really. The more distance from Roland the better, in his opinion, and the longer he could keep the other man from trying to force him into more training and more things for the company…he pulled a face and hit the steering wheel with his sore hand, cursing as he did so. If Roland were ill, things would begin to ramp up, and faster than he cared for.

He parked Arthur’s car outside of the other man’s loft and sat there, hesitant, angry, his knuckles still painful from where they’d split when he’d punched the window. He’d take the fucking car to get it fixed tomorrow; Arthur would have to forgive him if he paid for it, right? He let his head rest on the steering wheel for a minute, contemplating the small packet he had in his pocket, but not wanting to blow through his whole stash in one night. Not like he couldn’t get more, but still.

A taxi pulled up a few cars behind him, and he ducked down into the seat, ridiculously trying to keep Arthur from seeing him. He watched through the rearview mirror as Arthur got out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked to his front door without looking at the street, his clothing still beautiful and neat, his hair in place, his face pulled in a deep frown. He unlocked his loft door and went inside, still never looking at his car or the man ducked down in the front seat.

 _That_ brought the flood of ire back.

Lance got out of the Toyota, shutting the door, the cracked window tinkling with the motion. He stormed up the front steps and fumbled the keys into the lock, shaking with sudden _fire behind his eyes, can’t see straight, fucking Arthur and his fucking stuck up righteousness_ blooming rage and he popped the door open just as Arthur was there on the other side. He pushed too hard and Arthur cursed as the hard oak of the door caught him in the shin, his head slamming into the wall behind him as he backed up too quickly as he tried to get out of the way.

“Damn it! Lancelot – ” he started, but Lance was already yelling, arms flailing, letting the beast roar and beat its chest and Arthur’s eyes widened as they stood in the foyer and Lance just shouted and

“…you’re embarrassed of me, embarrassed of your dumb boyfriend who isn’t as good as the police you work with, I’m from made money after all, and not using my degree, and hey, my dad pays for most of my stuff, so I’m not working for a living like all the people you know, and after all, they’re so much better than me – ” he stopped to draw breath, but Arthur’s fist stopped his tirade by closing his mouth for him.

Lance’s head snapped back and he fell against the closed door and his hand, the one with the split knuckles, flew to his mouth, feeling the blood – more blood – drip from the corner and he sat and stilled.

Arthur’s hands were at his sides, shaking, drawn into fists, and his face was a thunderhead of gorgeous hurt and Lance drew a hanky from his pocket and spit into it, red dribbling from his mouth to his chin. The moon glowed warmly and blinded him as it moved across the sky and colored his skin, the stained glass at the top of Arthur’s door absorbing and filtering the white light to blues and greens and golds.

“Get up,” Arthur finally said, his hand reaching for Lance’s. “Get up, Lancelot.”

Lance took Arthur’s offered hand and rose with help, dizzy and not angry anymore and he had to run to the bathroom suddenly, for fear he’d throw up on Arthur’s floor. He stood over the toilet, breath harsh and reactive, stomach churning, but nothing came. After a few minutes he flushed the toilet needlessly and rolling his lips in on themselves, he met Arthur in the kitchen, where the other man was waiting with peroxide and a pinched, tight expression that changed to one of – sorrow? regret? Lance couldn’t tell.

He let Arthur wipe his face and he washed his mouth out with tap water, none of his teeth loose but he’d bitten his cheek, which was where the blood had come from. He washed his injured hand, the splits having knitted enough for him to not worry about bandaging it. Arthur watched him in silence and handed him paper towels when he was finished. Lance turned and leaned against the sink, hands at his sides, hesitantly, Arthur staring at him. Arthur’s mouth worked, but after nothing came out, he shook his head and opened the fridge and pulled out two Negro’s and jerked his head toward the living room, Lance following him to the couch slowly.

They sat and Arthur twisted the tops off and they drank, Lance wincing at the alcohol burn on the cut flesh inside his mouth.

“I’ll take the car to the dealership tomorrow,” he said. Arthur nodded. “Thanks,” he answered, having to clear his throat to get the word out. It sounded tremulous and Lance was reminded of the boy he’d been and how’d they’d been together as teens and how awful and odious high school had been until Arthur had come there his senior year and how Arthur had saved him from what could have been the most hellacious experience of his life and how Arthur had kept him from running away from home countless times and how Arthur had reminded Lance that not everything was about Roland and his terrible family and Lance rubbed at his right hand and his face was tight and his eyes burned suddenly and he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand their fighting.

Tears leaked out of his eyes and down his face and he leaned drunkenly into Arthur and the other man turned to him and wrapped his arms around Lance and Lance shook and cried and apologized four hundred times and Arthur just murmured _okay, Lance_ to him and he cried and cried and held onto Arthur like that was all there was left in the world. He couldn’t stand the way their relationship was going and he hated the pain and he hated his father and what he was making Lance do and he hated that Arthur knew it and was pulling away from him. He could tell it just by the way Arthur held him now. He wrapped his arms more tightly about Arthur and wouldn’t let go, he would never let go, never leave, never yell the words he’d yelled earlier from pain and anguish and hurt and fucking fuck, but he loved Arthur so much. He loved Arthur and he would not fuck this up.

“I know,” Arthur sighed, his voice exasperated and exhausted against Lance’s temple, and Lance realized he must have spoken aloud, and he sat up slowly and let go his stranglehold on Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s green eyes were bloodshot and narrowed and Arthur reached a hand out, touching a light finger to Lance’s sharp cheekbone, his mouth sore from Arthur’s punch. “You are so – Jesus, Lancelot,” Arthur sighed again, his voice low and stuttering. “I can’t damn well understand you any more. Do you know how terrifying that is? Do you even get it?” The words were soft and achy and Lance wanted to cry again, because he’d put that tone there and he’d die before he hurt Arthur. He couldn’t live without him.

The couch squeaked comically under him as he turned to more fully face Arthur. “I’m still me,” he answered. Arthur shook his head and dropped his hands to his thighs, his face echoing the _broken_ in his words. “No, you’re not,” he whispered, and Lance’s face crunched and he cried again, but this time he wiped the tears away angrily, his lips puffing at last. “I am,” he reiterated.

Arthur didn’t answer, and Lance climbed into Arthur’s lap and sat astride him, his torn hand opened up and bleeding sluggishly as he worked his fingers into Arthur’s neat hair, the gel that it took to slick the waves back crunching as he squeezed Arthur’s skull. The moon hit the blinds at his back and shadowed him weirdly onto Arthur’s wall.

Lance leaned over and kissed Arthur with his injured mouth and Arthur’s hands rose, trying to push Lance off of him, but Lance was determined and he loved Arthur and would make the other man see he wasn’t different, he wasn’t following in his father’s footsteps, he was his own man and he’d run the club and love Arthur and live a fulfilling life away from his family. He kissed him and Arthur gave up, the force of his hands turning to grabbing and he kissed back and Lance moaned his name and they were suddenly undressed, clothing flung everywhere and Arthur’s cock rubbed against his and Lance sobbed _Arthur_ again and the other man gritted his teeth and dug a tube of lube from between the cushions, laughing bitterly as Lance smiled through his calling of _come on, come on, come on_. Arthur was inside him after a moment of paused touching, Arthur’s fingers stretching him quickly, Lance sucking in a breath and throwing his head back, Arthur’s lips on his throat, bruising as he had done his mouth and chin.

The moon moved slowly behind them as Arthur thrust up into him and Lance rode it out, his hands tearing at Arthur’s no longer neat hair, his eyes squeezed closed, unwilling to see the anger and terror in Arthur’s face and the _I don’t understand you any more_. He licked his lips and bit Arthur’s shoulder and the other man came hard and fast and Lance jerked and ground his hips against Arthur’s middle, his stiff erection brushing Arthur’s stomach and he grunted and tried to breathe as he felt his own completion, sticky and hot against Arthur’s skin.

They slowed and didn’t speak and Arthur, after a few moments, levered them to the floor, the leather couch allowing them both to slip to the rug covered ground. Lance whimpered as Arthur pulled out of him, the loss of fullness too great and he let tears leak again, his first thought for the coke in his discarded pants as he couldn’t stand this, couldn’t stand being alone and he needed _something_ , anything to take the place of being possessed and loved, even if it was a false love that Arthur was perpetuating because he didn’t know any different or couldn’t make that large a change just yet.  
  
Arthur forced him to sit up, the other man’s hair falling all around his face, and he took Lance in his arms and Lance slipped his own around Arthur’s middle and tucked his face in Arthur’s neck and they were together and Lance didn’t do anything but breathe, as he was afraid to break this connection and he closed his eyes and let Arthur’s arms hold him up. Arthur’s right leg wrapped about Lance’s backside and he was nestled the way he needed to be, and thoughts of the coke drifted away on clouds, clouds that scudded over a star spotted sky, the city outside beautiful and silent as Lance was.

**Now.**

Roland lay silent in his coma, the machines that kept him alive beeping and humming and Lance jerked awake as a nameless nurse came into the room, fussing around his father, touching wires and adjusting things until Lance wanted to scream at her to _get the fuck out_ but she smiled innocuously at him and he kept his mouth shut.

His father’s cancer had roared up, a huge monster, and Lance knew it wouldn’t be long before the company was his, and he found the surety of the thought was blank, no worries or cares about it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking for the key to Arthur’s loft –

He let his head droop to his chest, and listened to the booping of the machines and knew with a finality that this inevitable death and new life he’d have to lead were going to be more awful than he could possibly contemplate.

 _I have to go, Arthur_.

He’d been gone for a long time, and realizing it now, he raised his head, eyes dry and empty, and he fingered the gold ring he wore on his left hand, and he sat up and watched his father’s husk deteriorate and he did not think of what he’d just given up for this thing that would never acknowledge him and what he _could_ have been.


End file.
